My good woman comes round after
the dinner, late, to see me. I leave a message on her phone during the day
telling her something of yesterday’s distress. “Why did you not call me
yesterday? What were you thinking?” She knows why I didn’t call.
Now she comes to pour balm on
my catastrophising. I read yesterday’s post to her. She scoffs at my notion
that losing my job will bring the house down.
“Pah! So what? I have been
through war; we lose everything. I have lost a house before: it’s nothing. We
can sell the house. Who cares? It’s just a house.”
She tells me what a good
presenter I am; I counter with all my misdemeanours, which pretty much amount
to being underprepared most of the time simply because I haven’t had the time
to prepare. My presentations have been crap. I’m not of top of the material. I’m
a footballer with no pre-season under his belt, always playing catch-up.
She gives me strategies for
dealing with my managers, not that I haven’t been concocting them all day. She
strokes me relentlessly, but also has the grace to listen to me pouring out my
shortcomings. I determine a little while back to hide nothing of my fragility
with this woman. If she buys me, she needs to know what she’s getting.
Last night as I think all the
worst thoughts, one good thought comes to me: if all this turns to shit, this
one woman will stick. And she will.
OK, so I’ve fucked up at work. Some
of it’s my fault but it’s not all my fault. A conspiracy of circumstances has
brought me down, but circumstances change. I’ve been gathering my determination
all day, to get through this day, and the next day, then the day after that.
This too will pass. I am weak,
but I have the love of a good woman. As I tell often her, “My good woman is the
best good woman.”
And to think that I nearly lost
her.
Rock on.
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